Prompt 3: Scale

 The winds of Ishgard never seemed to cease, much to Frieda's annoyance. It was particularly frustrating due to the fact that she regularly wore a feathered cap. The cap, along with the rest of her attire, had been recommended by a tailor who claimed it was a signature bardic look, which she couldn't argue with. Many bards, as she had learned from her times in taverns and inns, were easily identified by their hats. But it did mean that her hand was constantly clutching the thing to her head, or she was forced to hold it to keep it from flying off into the deep ravine that surrounded the city.

As of late she had frequented Ishgard. Thanks to an extensive clientele of nobles, all of who seemed to be terrified about their houses being lost to the passage of time in the face of imminent doom, she was making a fair amount of money. Often they were asking her to simply record what they said, but the more intense tasks required her to turn their family's history into an inspiring song. Which tended to be difficult, as it was hard to turn generations' worth of sitting around and drinking wine and disparaging the poor into anything inspiring. Unless you were a drunkard, who might find such a lifestyle aspirational.

Were she to make something out of all of their stories, it would have been how idle Ishgard had been until recent years had forced it to begin making changes. She could not imagine how a city so large could remain the same over such a long passage of time. Compared to Gridania it was massive, and that was before one accounted for the surrounding mountains. It had taken many grave things to make Ishgard begin to move. Perhaps the sheer size of it meant that more momentum was required for it to begin moving down the hill.

She was generally of the opinion that it was better late than never in the case of good change, which on the whole seemed to be what Ishgard had experienced. Where the city had felt so cold when she first visited, in the metaphorical sense as the city always felt cold in the literal sense, now there was a sense of warmth. The people no longer feared for their lives. A horde of wyrms were not at threat of descending over the walls, the issue of equality appeared to be being dealt with. Those who had done historical wrongs had or were being dealt with. The city still needed work, but the ball had been sent rolling.

As if on cue, a quick gust of wind and shadow sped past her. Her hands shot to her hat, and she braced herself as she gazed towards the sun. A dragon, wings spread wide continued on its way past the city. She remembered the first few times she had seen such happen. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, followed by a sense of wonder as she saw the other people on the street breathe a sigh of relief.

With the dragon out of sight, she continued on her way. Something drifting down in the breeze caught her eye further down the road. She reached out to let it fall into her hand, half expecting it to melt away the moment it made contact. Looking back up at the mountain the dragon had soared over, Frieda smiled. She pocketed the scale it had shed as a keepsake for this trip to the frozen north.

Prompt 2: Aberrant

 The beast was large, at least the size of two small huts sitting next to each other. Its horned head reared up, it's deep roar filling the snowy valley. Within moments it was charging again. Axe still brandished, Makoto rolled to side for what felt like the millionth time. She had sliced at the beast for what was beginning to feel like hours, and yet it showed no sign of tiring. Thankfully, neither did she.

The local Eorzeans, she believed they were from Ishgard though she could barely keep up with the different designations of the locals nor did she care to very much, had referred to the creature as a 'Behemoth'. She considered it a fair moniker, given the beast's size, if highly uncreative. Behemoth invoked no true sense of the thing, outside of its size relative to the average person.

Apparently behemoths were not uncommon in the Coerthan mountains. Which meant that adventurers were in constant demand, for behemoths did so love to go where they pleased, and that so often happened to be settlements full of delicious looking people. Thus a fairly regular culling was in order. Makoto had staked her claim on this fiend and after would could barely be called a hunt, for behemoths are not exactly hard to see nor track, their battle began.

This was not her first hunt. Makoto Okeya was a dotharl of the Steppe, and her people were well acquainted with fighting for their food. Many of them lived for the thrill of it, for those times when battling another tribe was not an option. She had never found it very fulfilling. Beasts, she had quickly learned, are quite predictable. Even though some are formidable, and many others simply refuse to die, they work off of simple instinct and behavior.

The behemoth was no exception, its behaviors were very simple. When she was at range, it charged her. When she was close, it became a storm of teeth and claw, one swipe of which was at risk of cleaving her in half. And rarely it called down an elemental bolt. She wasn't quite sure how it managed to do that as of yet. But it was very impressive.

With a few yalms between them, she readied herself for the beast to charge again. The canyon their duel resided in was narrow, which had required her to time her rolls carefully. It lowered itself, and she did the same, waiting for her window of opportunity to present itself. To her surprise, the beast did not charge. Instead it slammed the full of itself against the side of the canyon, sending a quake across the entire formation. She felt the ground under her feet tremble, and wondered if it was at risk of crumbling away. Above her flakes of snow were scrambling downward, as well as a few pebbles. Her gaze drifted upward in time to see the cascade of boulders making their way down.

Eyes growing wide, she scrambled, trying to judge their impact point to avoid being crushed. Just as one rock slammed into the ground her right and she readied herself to dodge the next, she found another projectile slamming into her. Her mind scrambled to make sense of anything as she was flung across the canyon, making contact with the ground just in time for the behemoth to strike again. Her heart began to race, her hands shaking as it continued to rage at her, snapping and clawing as she recovered and fled.

Makoto Okeya was a dotharl warrior. This was a simple truth. The descriptors themselves were also rather simple. Dotharl, those of the xaela who did not fear but embraced death. A warrior, one who channeled their rage into their axe and cleaved their foes in twain with the resultant swing. At the moment she felt like neither. There was no anger in her as she turned in time to bury her axe into the behemoth's shoulder, sending it reeling. Only a desperate panic filled her as she unleashed a fury of terrified blows against the creature.

Even after the beast was felled she felt that fear. Could still see it tearing hell down the canyon as it raced towards her. Perhaps that was meant to be her death. Should she have turned and faced it there? Let out a bellowing battle cry and leapt to what surely would have been her end? She did not know. Slumping against the side of the canyon, she could only ponder. For now, she felt rather tired, and even the freezing stone was not too uninviting.

Prompt 1: Foster

Many consider Gridania's main export to be its lumber. The vast forests, all well kept and managed by the local conjurers, allowed for a healthy logging industry. Others believed that Gridania's value lay in its herbs. Indeed the area was an alchemist's dream, with so many plants to pluck and turn into paste that it made the mind boggle. These too were tended to and documented, making them easy to find. Those in charge of tourism claimed that Gridania was truly great because of her people. The tried and true friendly forest folk were the true cornerstones of their secluded society.

Frieda presumed that it was a bit of everything, really. But her favorite thing about Gridania was that, due to the nature of it (quite literally), there were so many nooks and crannies to call your own. Those secluded spots where one was left with naught but themselves and their thoughts. Or so most tended to think.

The clearing she sat in now was one such place. The perfect place to practice the harp, as she had learned when she was much younger. It was the place she often found her brother during quiet summer evenings. Times when the tasks in the shop could be completed early or late, and there would be sun to burn regardless. Over the years she found him making the trek less and less, until inevitably he had ceased altogether.

She plucked on a string, considering such a moment. When the rocks and trees were so much larger, such that she could still hide behind them. The gentle, if unsteady notes her brother played, her head rested back against a tree, just out of sight. It had always felt like a game, to make sure that she went unseen. Of course, she always won, thanks to the fact that her brother never let on that he always knew she was there.

Just the thought of it fostered a sense of peace. She strummed another chord on her harp. Oh how such a simple feeling felt so rare. She had thought the act of being home would be enough, but she found only a hollow sense of the familiar in town.

The shops still ran, the streets still bustled, and yet many were absent. Marching off to war, as it were, for the fate of the realm. Such seemed to have been the way of things for so long. Even her family's shop hadn't felt right. Her mother and father, ever the charitable and logical pair, and shifted their focus from the shoes of everyday wear to the boots required for an army. They were helping with the effort to equip the Serpents, and when that quota had been met, they moved on to Flames and the Malestrom. Her brother helped as per usual, with little change in his life beyond the fact that the woman he had fancied had marched off to battle herself.

It was only with that serene sense of nothingness that she truly felt at home. At peace. She disliked it. Always had she craved some sense of adventure, of excitement, and to chronicle such. But as things were, all she felt was a pang of longing. The songs ill portrayed this feeling, she felt. Perhaps because many in a tavern's crowd already knew it too well.

The Call of Duty

The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. For some reason, that always seemed to impress her. Probably because everywhere else on Port Forward was far less operational. On any given day, or so a very drunk IT technician had told her, the port had no less than 100 new complaints popping up. Computers on the fritz, doors with hydraulics that needed replacing. A landing pad that had its sensors go on the wonk. The list was endless. IT Man had posited that it was a curse on account of the station's terrible pun. She wasn't sure what the pun was, but it must have been terrible enough to summon a few space demon.

There had been one period, described to her over three shots of whiskey, where all the stations technicians had dedicated themselves to clearing the list. Every hour of overtime they could manage was pulled, and at least some were kept off the books to get the job done. When the Herculean task was finished, everyone had the first full night of sleep they had had in years.

Then they woke up to the oxygen producers struggling to work.

Yet still, against all odds, Section Chief Alejandra's door always worked. Without fail. And today was no exception.

Most authority holding figures that Angua had met always tried to look busy when a subordinate was due to walk in the door. An illusion to paint them in a positive light, she presumed. You never want to see the boss lazing around knowing full well that you have a laundry list of tasks to oversee. Alejandra was pulling no such con. Her hands were folded on her desk from the moment Angua stepped through the door, only parting to motion to one of the two chairs that sat at the front of the desk for visitors.

"Please take a seat, miss Case," she said, her voice warm and professional.

Angua did as instructed, taking the chair. It was of a decent quality. Not quite as good as the one being sat in by the Section Chief, but just good enough that a visitor wasn't going to complain during their short time in the office.

Opening a drawer, Alejandra produced a tablet, and slid it across the desk. Angua took it, and slid through its various screens, reading over the already open documents. Having skimmed most of the relevant information, Angua let the tablet fall into her lap, and stared at her boss.

"Stanton?" Angua asked, as a casual bit of conversation. It was clearly written on the document. She knew full well what the assignment was.

"Stanton," Alejandra replied, knowing full well all she could add was in the request, "Rather active region these days. Plenty of smuggling, among other things. I'm sure you'll have an easy time blending in."

"When do I leave?"

Alejandra would have been taken aback at the response by anyone else. Most Advocacy enforcers, despite the station's technical problems, liked the posting. Port Forward was a decently quiet spot at the edge of its system. Angua liked to leave though. Perhaps, Alejandra had mused, because it was nice to come back somewhere quiet.

"Two days, we're still setting up your lodging and means of transportation."

"So I don't get to bring my Titan this time?"

"It will arrive a few weeks later, after you've 'worked' enough to 'earn' it. We don't want it shipping in with you."

"Makes sense," Angua said, tucking the tablet under her arm, "Points of contact already establish?"

"They are."

"No further questions, ma'am," Angua said, standing.

"Then you are free to go."

With nod, Angua turned, and made her way out of the office. The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. She wondered how on the fritz things were in Stanton.

Prompt 20: Soul

A toy chest. That was Agatha's first impression of the box of baubles that the merchant and set on the table, and happily pushed her way. As she prodded and poked through its contents, that thought remained. It reminded her of a toy chest, though it lacked a few things to complete the memory. She recalled a few deflated rubber balls she had kicked around her family's yard. A few dolls. Shiny stones that she had recovered from Lakeland. This chest only contained the latter.

Contrary to those rocks she had collected as a child, these stones appeared to be hand crafted, rather than simply pulled from the earth. They could have been organized out by shape and marking, if the merchant had bothered to take the time. He hadn't though, and so they sat in a mixed mess. She presumed it was so that she would have a harder time producing two of the same kind, and noted how inconsistent their designs were in comparison.

There was a reason she had spent the day before researching soul crystals. It was a topic she hadn't truly breached until she had come across it in conversation at the arcanist's guild. Those teachings tended to branch off, she had been told, into two unique disciplines. Practitioners of either discipline would have been disgusted looking in the box.

Both the stones meant for a scholar or a summoner were crude in their craft. It didn't matter which she pulled out, they were all imperfect in their design, and branded with a poor rendition of each discipline's emblem. Worst of all, she felt no resonance with either of them. There was no soul in these crystals, either in the spirit of craft, or the spirit of an individual.

She paused her digging, looking up to consider the merchant. He had retained his confident manner, hands resting in his lap. The bead of sweat on his brow betrayed him. Every moment she looked further into the box worried him. She presumed that he had grown used to fools prodding his wears and buying whatever struck their fancy. By the time they could return demand a refund, he would have skipped town. She resumed shifting through the box's content. It hadn't escaped her mind that this would be a possibility. If it took a few tries to find a proper soul crystal, she would endure. No matter how long it to-

A chill ran down her spine as her hand ran one of the crystals near the bottom of the box. Her fingers curled tight around the stone, and the frost dug in even deeper. Her eyes darted about the room, trying to spot the person she was now certain was observing her. She stared at the merchant, and swore he was about to panic. The shadow behind him agreed.

Ripping her hand from the box, stone still clutched in a dead man's grip. She forced it out of her hand and onto the table, behind the box. The merchant tried to look around the box, to see what it was she had retrieved, before she glared at him. He shot back into his chair immediately. Agatha rubbed her hand. It felt as though if she were to look at her palm, the stone would have left a burning scar, but she knew that wasn't the case.

It sat innocently enough on the table. A jagged piece of an obsidian looking ore, emblemized with a dark red sword. She palmed it again, immediately shuffling it from the table to her pocket, hand burning the entire way.

"Price," she said, looking back to the merchant.

"Pardon?"

"The price for one," she repeated, watching him starting to stammer, "Give me the price for one, you damned fool."

He gulped, murmuring, "A thousand gil."

She stood, flinging her prepared payment on the table, and left the merchant. Her pocket burned. Even walking down the docks of Limsa Lominsa made her fingers curl from the pain. Every now and then she stopped with a shudder, and was forced to look over her shoulders to make sure she wasn't being followed. By the time she returned to her room at the inn, she felt forced to bury the crystal in a drawer, just to keep her distance.

Yet in her dreams, it seemed to call.

Prompt 19: Where the Heart is

There was a number of words that could describe Winttrach Ahldbharwyn's abode. Simple. Spartan. Undecorated. Rather ill-suited to guests.

Such was the way it had always been, and such was the way she had been raised. A few adornments for the walls, including flags of those she felt comfortable flying. A small sitting area next to her orchestration, which she sparingly bought new recordings for. A comfortable kitchen area to cook in, and a similarly comfortable area to sit in. The hallway beyond the sitting and eating half of the house split the remaining space down the middle, into two rooms.

One was an office, with a desk jammed into a corner so tightly that were she wearing armor, Winttrach often had to clamber over it just to squeeze into her rather comfortable chair. This, and her bed, were the only pieces of furniture she had allowed herself to truly splurge on. The office's walls were covered in bookshelves and maps, further shrinking the room to the point where it seemed far too small for its roegadyn resident.

The bedroom was similar. The bed was sizable enough for her, but as the room was small enough as it was, it took up a fair amount of space. Which left barely enough room for her dresser, and chest for her armor to rest in.

The view from the window in the hallway was similarly bland. It was a lovely view, so long as your definition of 'lovely' would befit a long, empty gorge, of which nothing of note could be said. It wasn't even pocked with any foliage.

All was as Winttrach wanted it. There was no need to load the place down with luxury, as she was constantly on the road. She had what she needed for when she was home. And so home it was.

Prompt 18: Panglossian

 Optimism was a difficult thing to manage. Even on her best days, those where she had little more than a care in the world, Frieda was bound to be visited by at least one dour though, if not more. Life was full of such disappointments.

If she managed to keep her focus away for long enough, things were perfectly fine. She was traveling Eorzea, and lands beyond soon enough hopefully, and making a living through song. Eccentric and exciting people had been met, and beautiful locales had been witnessed. What more could she want?

Quite a bit, she had found out. Those things she had neglected while still living with her parents back in Gridania. Such as the fact that, at the end of every day there were so many things to be paid for. A room at the local in, which in some places felt rather outrageously priced. She needed food to fill her belly, lest she starve, which again could fetch an inane amount of gil.

On worse days it was much harder to ignore. Those days when she encountered a woeful individual, those souls who were worth speaking too just for the chance that their stories would make an excellent ballad. Those nights when she had to stretch her gil as far as she could.

But on the whole, Frieda Morrow felt happy. Most of the time.